John Watson's Spotless Mind
by kristophalexander
Summary: "Sherlock! Come back here!" John leaned over the banister to glare at the detective running away from the crime scene. "I'm erasing you!" John bellowed. "And I'm happy about it!"
1. Chapter 1

John Watson slowly opened his eyes, quickly shutting them to block out the sunshine streaming in through the room. For a second, just a brief moment, he panicked. He didn't know where he was. It was like that strange feeling one gets when they fall asleep with their shoes on and wakes up with them off. Then he opened his eyes again and really focused.

Oh, right. He was in his own flat; his minute, postage-stamp-sized flat. He doesn't know why he's surprised. It's not like he had anywhere else to be. He can't even remember the last time he went out. It seems like forever since he's been to the movies or even to the pub. Feels like ages since he's talked to Harry. Maybe he should give her a call. Won't help to just drop in on her, though. Especially not this early in the morning. If John had to guess, he'd say she would be asleep. Maybe he'd call her out for dinner. It'd be nice to spend an evening with his sister. It'd be nice to have some friends, too.

Not that he didn't have any friends; he had plenty, but most were still off in Afghanistan. For a second, he misses being there. It was never boring there, to say the least. At least he wasn't lonely. But no, he shakes the thought from his head. Better to be bored and safe than excited and in danger. At least that's what he tries to tell himself.

He sits up in bed slowly. John rubs his eyes and pulls his hand back in shock. There are tears dried on his cheeks and the rims of his eyes. Had he been crying in his sleep? He can't remember. He doesn't remember what he even dreamed about. He'd find it odd if he weren't so relieved that he couldn't remember if it was about Afghanistan.

Sunlight (pretty rare in London at this time of year) is shining through the window. It seems even brighter from the liberal amount of snow on the ground. John can see it from his window. It hurts his eyes to see the way the sun reflects off the snow. He wonders what time it is.

'Can't be too late,' He figures. His time spent abroad had made him an early riser. If he really let himself sleep, knowing that he didn't have to be up early, he still only got a solid eight hours. He glances around the room, and then leans over the side of the bed and picks up his watch. It was nearly 11.

"Jesus," He mutters to himself, running his hand down his face. He can't remember what time he fell asleep (in fact, he can't remember even crawling into bed) but he feels out of sorts. He must have been sleeping for a really long time. Despite that, he feels reluctant to get out of bed. He doesn't feel tired or sick, but something was…wrong. Something felt off and he couldn't figure out what it was.

He pulls the covers off himself and gets out of bed. Even the way his feet feel on the floor feel wrong. He can tell it is going to be a bad day. It must be. This must be his subconscious telling him to just stop and get back in bed and save himself the trouble. He goes to the bathroom to relieve himself.

Once out, he grabs an apple and sits down at the desk where his laptop is. He opens the Internet, going to his blog website. For a few moments, he stares at it, puzzled. There is only one entry, and it simply says, "_Nothing ever happens to me_."

After a while, he opens up a new blog entry and begins to write.

:::

_This seems to be my first blog post in two years. It is the day before Valentines Day, and it seems I am alone…again. Never really liked Valentines Day. Seemed a bit silly, if you ask me. I don't know. I suppose I was hoping it would be a bit different this time around. It'd be…nice to have someone make plans with. To have a girlfriend or…yes, it'd be nice._

_I feel out of sorts today. Remember when you were a kid and you would fall asleep in the car and wake up in your own bed? I suppose that's a bit how I feel. Lost. I have no reason to be. _

_Snowed a bit over the night. _

_I can see why I haven't written a blog post in two years. I'm not very good at it._

:::

He saves the post and closes the laptop. He sees the light on the answering machine flashing, signaling that he has a missed message.

He hits the playback button and goes to the kitchen (if one is generous enough to call it that) to make him a cup of coffee. It isn't gourmet, just the instant powder in some water. It's never really bothered John before, but today he kind of hates it. The answering machine beeps twice, signaling that it is an old message, before playing.

"John, where the hell are you?" John recognizes Clara's voice, vaguely surprised that she is calling. "You said you'd meet me at St. Barts! I told you that this job interview is _really_ important, and I can't guarantee that Lorelei will be around after noon, so hurry up!"

John's eyes widen as he vaguely remembers Clara calling him earlier that week to tell him about a position at the hospital near her house that just opened up. She said something about John needing a job and that she had a friend pull some strings…or something like that. He can't really remember. As he quickly moves to the shower, he is cursing the fact that he could forget something as important as a job interview. It was just absurd. He barely had any time to get ready. St. Barts was about 20 minutes away, and it was already 11.

After John showered and shaved, he was grabbing a suit from the plastic dry cleaner wrapping and throwing it on. He hadn't even laid it out the night before. He was completely unprepared. This was so unlike him!

He didn't have time to get breakfast. He stuffed his wallet in his back pocket and then took off out of the apartment. He didn't have much other choice but to take a cab and hope they got them there in time.

::::

He was really out of sorts. He has a kind of déjà vu feeling about this floor of St. Barts, but he can't recall off the top of his head if he had been there before.

The job interview had gone well enough. Dr. Lorelei Tebond had been a very strict and grim looking woman, but John didn't really have a problem with that. A job was a job. John still couldn't shake that weird feeling. It was like he had gotten home and hadn't remembered driving there. Almost as if he had been functioning on autopilot.

Maybe it's just because he was tired. Yeah, that's it. Perhaps he'd go down to the eating hall, get a cup of coffee. That'll help. He saw a little map on the wall, and he stopped in front of it, looking for the floor that the eating hall was on. He hadn't noticed a very tall, thin man with dark hair walking towards him until he had knocked right into John, sending John falling to the floor and the man to his knees. He had been carrying a thick stack of papers and they all went fluttering to the floor in a big mess.

"Damn!" Said the man, his voice unexpectedly deep. John was on the floor, rubbing his knee where it had connected with the wall as he fell. He looked up at the man.

He was very pale, and had a very interesting facial structure. The height of his cheekbones seemed unreal and his almond eyes were huge. His hair was a little long and dark and curly. He wore a long black coat and a blue scarf. As he turned his gaze to John, he could see that the stranger had either gray eyes or a very light blue.

"Watch where you're going!" The man spat. John laughed in disbelief.

"What, me? You knocked me over!" He said indignantly. The stranger ignored him, muttering the word "idiot" as he began to gather the papers on the floor. John sighed.

"Here, let me help." He said quietly, grabbing a few papers near him and starting to stack them. John could see the man jerk his head up at him, but then he just went back to the task at hand. There were so many papers that it took quite a few minutes to put them back into a pile and even after the man was flipping through them, seeming to rearrange them.

After another moment, and the papers were in order, both men stood up.

"I suppose I should thank you." Said the stranger reluctantly. The words came out bitter, as if he thought it was entirely beneath him to have to thank someone else. "Though if you had just gotten out of my way, I wouldn't have needed your assistance."

John stared up at the man. He was quite tall (thought it didn't take much to be taller than John) and was really a bit beautiful. Even John had to admit that.

"You're welcome." John said slowly, if not a little sarcastically. The two just looked at each other for a long moment. The corner of the man's lips turned up in a very small smile.

"How did the job interview go? I hope you weren't late." He said. John was shocked. How had he known? He voiced the question aloud.

"Your suit." The man said. John looked down at what he was wearing.

"What about it?" He asked.

"You missed a belt loop. Your shirt isn't tucked in all the way and your tie is slightly crooked. Means you were in a hurry when you put it on," The man said quickly, looking over John again. "I'd say you've owned it a little over two years—I recognize the tie from a clothing line that was popular two years ago—and it is still a little bulky around the shoulders, so it wasn't made especially for you. The creases are still in the trousers from being folded and the receipt from the dry cleaners," He reached into John's inside pocket and pulled out a receipt John hadn't noticed before. He quickly looked over it. "Yes it says that you had taken this suit to be cleaned about 2 years ago. So you haven't worn this suit in two years. Why is that?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but the man continued on. It was either a rhetorical question or he had just asked it to himself.

"It means that you wear this suit only on special occasions. Couldn't be a Christmas party because the receipt says the suit was received in March, and you wouldn't wear this nice a suit to a birthday party, so it had to be something else. No, I suspect the last place you wore this suit to was a job interview." The man looked at John even more carefully. "Pair your clothing mishaps with the fact that you missed two spots while shaving and you have toothpaste on the edge of your mouth, I would say that you forgot you had a job interview this morning and was nearly late to it."

John stared in shock at the man. Had he really known all that just from looking at him? It was insane. This man had to be crazy. He was…

"Brilliant." John breathed. The man's eyes widened fractionally in surprise. "That was brilliant."

The man ducked his head slightly. "Thank you." He said.

"I'm John," He said, holding out his hand. "John Watson."

The man looked at John's hand with a slight air of caution, almost like he thought John was playing a rude trick on him.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said, taking John's hand and shaking it. John was surprised to find the man's hand calloused. He looked so delicate that John had suspected he didn't work with his hands.

John grinned at the man. For some reason (and he really couldn't figure out what) John had immediately liked Sherlock.

"What are those papers for, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock's head jerked slightly to the left, as if in surprise that John had used his first name, but quickly moved on.

"They're for a case I'm working on." He said. John felt his eyebrows shoot up.

"You're a doctor?" John asked and Sherlock's lip twitched, though John couldn't tell if it was from amusement or disgust.

"No." He said. "I'm a consulting detective."

"Never heard of it." John said slowly, racking his brain for any memory on such a position.

"'Course you wouldn't," Sherlock said with a satisfied smile. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"So, what exactly does-?"

"Sherlock!" A pretty woman with long brown hair was turning around the corner, walking quickly towards the two of them and waving a file in her hand. "Sherlock, you forgot…"

Her voice died out, and her eyes widened as she caught sight of John. He looked back at her with a puzzled expression. She was staring at John like she'd seen a ghost.

"Oh, Molly, very good." Sherlock said. His tone was the same that one might praise a dog or a baby. It was a little degrading, if John was honest with himself. Sherlock flipped open the file and gestured at John. "John Watson, this is Molly Hooper. She works here in the hospital. Molly, John Watson. He used to be an army doctor in Afghanistan."

Both John and Molly quickly looked at Sherlock with surprised expressions. Sherlock was staring intently down at the file, quite oblivious. After noticing the silence, he looked up.

"What?" He asked.

"How did you know I was an army doctor?" John asked quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's a bit obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked. "Haircut and posture says military. Sun damage on your lips and your hair is not naturally that bright. You wait two years to wear your nicest suit, so you're not the type to dye your hair. Means that hours in the sun have made it lighter. You favor your right left and your shoulder is still a bit stiff, so you've gotten shot and used to have a psychosomatic limp but it seems that you've recovered. And you're at a job interview at a hospital? You have delicate and steady hands, doctor's hands, so you must be a doctor. Afghanistan was a shot in the dark. Did I get it right?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just turned his gaze back to the file.

"You did." John said.

"Of course I did." Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"That…was amazing." John said. Sherlock jerked his head back towards John with the same shocked expression and John smiled back admirably. Molly was a few feet away, a confused and slightly panicked expression on her face.

"What are you doing today?" Sherlock asked. "I could use a doctor's perspective on this case."

"I…uh…sure. Sure. That would be…fine." John said, stammering for a moment. Sherlock smiled faintly.

"Good." He said, and then he turned and started walking down the hall, clearly expecting John to follow. "Afternoon, Molly!"

"Afternoon." Molly said very faintly, and John glanced at her with an uncomfortable look. Did she fancy Sherlock? He couldn't tell. John just cleared his throat, nodded at her and then followed Sherlock.

:::

The flat on Baker Street was charming, if a little bit cluttered. There were countless papers all over, boxes full of files and manila envelopes. Pictures of what seemed to be a bloody crime scene were taped above the mantelpiece. Books were sprinkled liberally all over the place. John could see an expensive looking violin placed carelessly on the coffee table.

There was a flurry of movement and John looked over to see Sherlock removing his scarf and coat. He tossed them onto the coffee table and turned so that John could see that he was wearing a light blue dress shirt and black trousers. The first few buttons were left open, revealing his pale throat. John had a sudden urge to cross the room and run his tongue and teeth along that throat. He quickly cleared his throat and looked away.

"Is that a skull?" John asked, pointing toward the mantelpiece, where a (possibly) human skull rested on top of a thick German dictionary and a book titled 'Jack the Ripper'.

Sherlock glanced over at the skull and smiled minutely.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said, ignoring John's slightly alarmed look. Sherlock clapped his hands together and pointed off toward the kitchen with both index fingers.

"Tea?" He asked. John looked over at the entryway to the kitchen.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, sure. I'd love some." He said.

"Me, too," Sherlock sighed as he flopped himself on the couch. "Kettle is in the cupboard next to the sink. You know how to use a stove, don't you?"

He clasped his hands under his chin like he was in prayer and shut his eyes. John stared in disbelief. What a passive aggressive thing to do! Yet John wasn't angry in the slightest.

"John," Sherlock said, as if he enjoyed saying the name. "The tea."

"I'm not your house keeper." Muttered John, though there was a good-natured smile on his face. He had already started walking toward the kitchen so he didn't see Sherlock open one eye and smile after him.

The amusement John felt vanished almost immediately. The dining table was almost hidden under so many science tools that it wasn't as if he had walked into a kitchen but into a lab.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John asked in concern.

"Do try not to disturb any of the experiments; they are all in critical stages." Sherlock called.

John turned back to the kitchen, a bewildered look on his face. Luckily, it didn't seem that anything was cooking or on fire. It wasn't too smelly, either.

"Right." John muttered. He slowly advanced into the kitchen, glancing around. Yes, the papers books and files had migrated into the kitchen as well. There were some odd containers in the sink, filled with substances John felt he was better off not knowing about.

"Unless you have a strong stomach, I would frown upon you looking at the contents of the fridge," Sherlock warned from the other room. It made John want to run open to the fridge and yank it open but he quickly controlled the urge. He briefly wondered if there was something crazy in there, like fingers or a head, but he found that he really didn't care either way. For all he knew, Sherlock could be a psychopathic serial killer, and John found he didn't really mind. Unless he was planning on murdering John. Then were would be a problem.

He opened the cupboard next to the sink, spotted an ancient looking black kettle. He filled it with water (taking care to avoid the 'experiments' growing in the sink) and put it on the stove.

As it was heating, John turned back to the living room, where Sherlock was still resting. Actually, though Sherlock hadn't seemed to move, John saw that the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up and a nicotine patch had been applied to the inside of his arm.

"Nicotine patch?" John asked. He hadn't taken Sherlock to be a smoker, even if he didn't do it now.

Sherlock hummed in response. John looked off for a place to sit. Unfortunately, the wicker chair in the corner was stacked to the nines with books, and the desk chair had four boxes stacked on it. The sofa was the only available seat and Sherlock was currently sprawled across it.

"Two bodies," Sherlock said quietly.

"Pardon?" John asked.

"The case, John. Pay attention." Sherlock said in the same way one might scold a child. "Two bodies of men in their 30's were found in a warehouse on the east side of London."

Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John.

"They were found holding swords in their hands, but they were both shot directly in the heart. Gunpowder residue on their hands. Yet their bodies were facing away from each other." Sherlock said.

"So, they shot each other and someone else arranged the bodies to look otherwise." John said.

"That might be, but there was a witness to the entire thing." Sherlock said. "A blind man named Michael Haddison. Does this sound familiar to you?"

"Should it?" John asked.

"One dark day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. If you don't believe the story is true, ask the blind man, he saw too!" Sherlock recited.

"A poem?" John asked.

"Yes. Which makes it even stranger. I was—," The sound of the kettle screeching filled the room. John quickly turned and walked back in. He moved the kettle to a different burner and turned off the stove.

"Sherlock?" John called. "Where do you keep the tea?"

There was a brief moment of silence and then an earsplitting crash. John didn't flinch (years in the military had cured him of that habit) but he turned and moved quickly back to the living room.

Sherlock was standing and was staring down at the office chair, which he had either shoved or kicked to the ground. The boxes had spilled their contents, creating a huge mess. Sherlock took a deep breath and ran his hand through his dark curls.

"Sorry, tea?" Sherlock asked. "I'm afraid I don't remember."

And if John wasn't mistaken, Sherlock seemed to be very disturbed about that.

:::

Two hours had passed and John had quickly learned that Sherlock's idea of "getting a doctor's perspective on the case" was to sit on the sofa and watch Sherlock pace the room and mutter angrily.

"How? It doesn't make sense." He muttered. "I need to talk to the blind man. I need to interrogate him. There must be something in the statement that he left out. If I could get a look at his face!"

Sherlock sat down on the couch beside John. He hadn't acknowledged John's presence for half an hour. John was contemplating on leaving (after all, it didn't seem that Sherlock really need him) but he was surprisingly reluctant to go. He felt at home in the messy flat. He was even kind of fond of the eccentric Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't figure out why, but it was familiar and comforting.

"We need to talk to the blind man," Sherlock breathed. "Look at the report. His address should be on there."

John flipped through the pages and found the police report. He recited the address to Sherlock, who was pulling on his coat.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. John looked up.

"What?" He asked.

"You're coming with me," Sherlock said. He didn't phrase it like a question or even a confirmation. No, he almost whined it, as if it was painfully obvious and he couldn't believe that John had the gall to think otherwise.

"Oh, uh, okay." John said and he thought he heard Sherlock mutter something that sounded a lot like 'honestly, John' and it made John smile.

There was a cab going right by the flat as they were leaving and Sherlock managed to hail it down. By the time John had gotten into it, Sherlock had already given the cabbie the directions and was pulling away from the curb.

John gazed out the window. It was mid-afternoon and snow was softly beginning to fall.

"Got any plans tomorrow, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock jerked his head back towards John, his look questioning his sanity.

"Why would I have plans?" Sherlock asked.

"It is Valentine's Day." John said.

"Dull," Sherlock said in a disinterested tone, pulling his cell phone out of his coat pocket.

"So, no girlfriend, then?" John asked.

"Not exactly my area, John." Sherlock said. John didn't realize that he had been tensed up until he relaxed after hearing that. Sherlock was looking down at his phone and hadn't seen.

"Boyfriend?" John prompted. Sherlock turned his head to look at John accusingly, that same look like the one at the hospital that questioned if John was playing a joke on him. He stared at John for a long moment and then turned his look back to his phone.

"Oh, alright then." Sherlock said with a bored tone.

"Pardon?" John asked.

"I was under the impression that you were inviting me to spend Valentines Day with you." Sherlock answered. "And I accept."

"Oh," John said, dumb struck. He hadn't seen that coming. How had Sherlock even known that John was bisexual? It wasn't as if he was particularly flamboyant. In fact, he'd only ever had one boyfriend, and that was back when he was just a teenager. It hadn't ended well. Sherlock turned to look at John out of the corner of his eye and John wondered why Sherlock agreed.

"You aren't an imbecile like the others, I can see that." Sherlock murmured, reading John's emotions on his face. "And you haven't run away screaming by now, so that is always a good sign."

"People normally do that?" John asked.

"People don't appreciate me seeing things about them. It unsettles them. They like to think they can keep their secrets." Sherlock said, casting his eyes down at his phone. "So people don't really like me."

This seemed a very intimate confession, especially since they hadn't even known each other a day. John got the feeling that Sherlock was a very private person.

"Well, you can't really help it, can you?" He asked. "Besides, I haven't got any secrets to keep."

"I know." Sherlock said.

John felt a smile growing on his face. Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners for a barely noticeable smile.

"Now, back to the case." Sherlock said. "We're nearly there so I want you to…"

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he looked back out the window.

"We're not going the right way." He said in a hushed voice. Evidently the cabbie was taking them away from their destination.

"There is an intersection coming up," Sherlock whispered. "When I tell you to, I want you to get out of the cab and run as fast as you can."

John looked over at Sherlock and their eyes locked. This wasn't a trick, he could see that.

"Okay." John whispered. Sherlock's eyes blazed for a second and he nodded.

"Now!"

The car had just pulled to a stop at a red light when both Sherlock and John opened the doors on either side and climbed out. John had just gotten to a standing position when he felt like a bee had stung him on the neck. He cried out, reaching up and ripping a tranquilizer dart of his neck. It wasn't like a tranquilizer dart used on animals. It was a sleek silver dart with a long needle, and it was as thick as a bullet.

Already his arms felt numb and his vision was fuzzy. He lurched against the cab and behind him just in time to see Sherlock crumble to the ground. John struggled to stay conscious but his knees were already beginning to buckle. He saw the road jump up at him and then he saw darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

2 DAYS EARLIER

John Watson is confused. He is at a crime scene and he sees Sherlock Holmes leaning over a body. He starts to walk toward him, but is quickly intercepted by Lestraude and Donovan, both with panicked expressions on their faces.

"John, no, you can't come in," Lestraude says, holding his hand up to stop John.

"What are you talking about? It's me," John says with a slightly incredulous chuckle. He gestures to Sherlock in the distance. "I'm here to talk to him."

"You can't." Lestraude's face looks pained. He is clearly uncomfortable. John glances over at Sally, who looks visibly angry.

"What? Why not?" John asks. Both Lestraude and Donovan look at each other, as if seeking advice from the other.

"Just go to my office. I will meet you there and try to explain everything," Lestraude says.

"What do you mean 'explain'? Is something wrong?" John looks between the two of them, and glances at Sherlock before looking down. "Did Sherlock tell you to keep me away?"

"No!" Lestraude says quickly, though there is a guilty expression on his face. John knew that the fall out between him and Sherlock was public knowledge. After being attached at the hip for two years, it would be easy to see that they had separated two months ago.

"Come on, let me just talk to him," John says, and he knows he is pushing his luck when he lifts the crime scene tape and walks past the two objecting officers. He ignores their protests.

The body on the ground looks like it had fallen from a twelve-story building, yet they are in a residential neighborhood, in the middle of the street. John knows that is why they brought Sherlock in.

In fact, he is approaching Sherlock right now. He hasn't even looked up at John. It is only when John is 3 feet away that Sherlock glances at him and sighs irritably.

"If you want me to consult a private case, then email me. Don't interrupt me when I'm working. Lestraude!" He calls over his shoulder. "You just _let_ civilians wander into your crime scenes? Get him out of here; he is contaminating everything!"

Sally is the one who pulls a shell-shocked John away. She orders him to go wait for Lestraude in his office. John nods numbly, hoping he'll have a good excuse for why Sherlock Holmes didn't recognize him.

:::

"I don't understand it," John is saying softly. "I know he can be childish sometimes but this is different. He _really_ didn't recognize me. He couldn't have deleted me that easily, could he?"

Both Lestraude and Donovan are familiar with Sherlock's deleting process, Sally especially because Sherlock deletes any conversation they have almost immediately. They glanced at each other again.

"Look," Lestraude says gently. "Have you considered that maybe it is best to, uh, move on?"

John had thought so 2 months ago. Had even moved out of 221b into a much smaller flat on the other side of London. But now, he just wanted Sherlock back. The last 2 months had been lonely and considerably boring.

"No. He's my best friend." John says and Sally huffs.

"Let's just tell him!" She says, right as Lestraude tries to shush her loudly. Both look aggravated with each other.

"Tell me what?" John asks.

His mind immediately goes to the worst:

Sherlock is back into drugs.

Sherlock _hated_ John, and never wanted to see him again.

The worst of all: Sherlock had found someone else, and is happy. Drugs he could always recover from. Hate could turn back into love. But if Sherlock was indifferent to John, and was actually happy with someone else, then there was nothing John could do.

Greg and Sally are arguing, their voices overlapping so John isn't able to understand what either are saying. Finally, Lestraude threw his hands up in defeat.

"Fine! Go ahead and tell him. It's not like you won't do it as soon as I'm out of the room." He says, walking behind his desk and throwing himself down in the chair.

"What?" John says loudly. "Tell me what?"

Lestraude opens a desk drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. It is cut into a rectangle and is light pink. He hands it to John, who reads it aloud.

"Sherlock Holmes has erased John Watson from his memory. Please never mention their relationship again," John reads. He looks up. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, everyone in the station got one," Sally says.

"What is this company? Lacuna, Inc?" John asks.

"We did a bit of research on it. It is an alternative medicine practice that specializes in erasing memories."

John feels like he's been punched in the gut several times. He doesn't speak for a long time. He had known Sherlock 'deleted' unimportant information, but he hadn't known that he literally _deleted_ memories.

Something doesn't seem right about this. He wonders if Moriarty or someone else had forced Sherlock into it.

"Can I have the number for the company?" He asks and once it is given to him, he leaves without another word.

:::

"I remember you, Dr Watson," The doctor is saying. "Got my son out of a pretty pinch, you and Mr. Holmes did. How is he doing?"

Dr Howard Mierzwiak is an older man (John would guess mid to late fifties) and slightly heavyset. Sherlock and John had proved his son innocent of a murder charge, saving him from life in prison.

"Wouldn't know." John says through gritted teeth. Dr. Mierzwiak looks over at him as if just realizing exactly whom he was talking to.

"Oh," He says. "I suppose you wouldn't."

The doctor leads John down a narrow hall and into an office. He gestures for John to have a seat and so he does. He sits gingerly, the gun hidden in his jeans pressing up against his back uncomfortably. Dr Mierzwiak sits behind his desk.

"Linda was saying you had a few questions about the procedure?" He asks.

"Why did Sherlock erase me?" John asks. Part of him was still hoping that this was all an elaborate hoax or that Sherlock was performing one of his insane experiments. He had always favored John as his guinea pig. The worst that could happen here, John thinks, is that Moriarty had forced Dr Mierzwiak to erase Sherlock's memory. If so, then John was going to force him to restore them.

Dr Mierzwiak look just a bit flustered. John found that he didn't really care.

"People come to Lacuna to get a clean slate," Dr Mierzwiak explains. "They find themselves unable to cope with painful memories. They want to move on. We provide a service that enables them to do so."

"It's brain damage," John says shortly. "I am a doctor; this prancing pony act won't work on me."

Dr Mierzwiak gives John a long considering look, and then sighs and leans back in his chair. He was going to drop the formalities.

"Sherlock had led me to believe that you and him had been in a relationship of sorts." He looks at John for confirmation, who says nothing but gives him a stony expression that says enough.

"Now, I can't reveal anything he has specifically said. Patient confidentiality, you understand. But I was under the impression that Mr. Holmes wanted to move on," Dr Mierzwiak pauses, reluctant to reveal any more. John was gripping the chair, his knuckles white.

He had known Sherlock was upset (as much as Sherlock could be) but this was ridiculous. He had erased John! It was absurd, selfish, and childish. Therefore, it was a completely Sherlock thing to do.

"So you made him forget me." John said. His voice trembled just slightly, but the doctor either didn't notice or was polite enough to keep it to himself.

"We gave him the option," He says.

:::

John is lying in his apartment. He is angry, betrayed and _angry_. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he be so selfish? Was John really so unimportant that Sherlock could so easily erase him?

John thinks back to when he moved his things out of 221b. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. He just sat there and played the violin. After John had moved everything into Harry's car, he went to say goodbye to Sherlock. However, Sherlock just gave him a look and played his violin even louder.

John had thought he was just he was just being an asshole like usual. Now, he wondered if Sherlock had moved on, even then. After all, it wasn't like he tried to convince John to stay. Hadn't even said a word since the night John left him. Maybe he had plans to erase John, even then.

It was probably easy for the bastard, too. He thought himself to be so clever, so _smart_, that it was probably nothing to erase boring old John. It wasn't as if John had done everything for him. Not like John gave up his practice, his social life and his _sanity_ for Sherlock Holmes. No, of course not. John was irrelevant now. Erased. Deleted. Insignificant. Sherlock Holmes was just fine without him.

"_Get him out of here; he is contaminating everything!_"

John could feel revulsion setting his teeth on edge. He didn't need Sherlock, either. He didn't have to put up with his sour moods and crazy experiments and absolute arrogance. John's life would be so much better, so much more _normal_, without Sherlock in it.

Sherlock was always bragging about how brilliant he was. He constantly ignored John's every word. The limbs in the fridge and the violin music at 3 in the morning. He was always bossing John and having complete disregard for anyone but himself.

John was so angry that he could shoot something. He never wanted to see Sherlock again! Never wanted to hear someone mention his name! He didn't even want to think about him!

He wished that he had never met Sherlock Holmes!

:::

He practically barreled through the receptionist at Lacuna, Inc. She is yelling after him to stop, but John ignores her. Howard is in his office, talking to an older woman. John doesn't care if he is busy. He knows he is being rude and out of line, but he just doesn't _care_. He can't go another minute thinking about Sherlock. It is like a tumor in his brain and he wants it out _now_.

"I want it done," John says. "The procedure. I want it done. I need him out. I just—want it done."

Dr. Mierzwiak is giving him the cautious look one might give a rabid dog. He excuses himself the woman in the chair and goes to talk with John in the hall.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I tried to stop him-," The receptionist tries to say, but Dr. Mierzwiak waves her away.

"It's okay, Linda." He says and turns back to John. "You would like to go through with the procedure?"

"Yes," John sighs. Dr Mierzwiak looks carefully at him for a moment and then nods.

"Okay, Dr. Watson." He says but then something occurs to John.

"How much will it cost? I mean, if I could set up a payment plan then-," But he is silenced with a look from Dr Mierzwiak.

"You got my son off a murder charge. It's free." He says, and John is too relieved to protest. He could imagine that something like this cost a pretty penny. He wondered if it was even possible to set up a payment plan. It wasn't like anyone would remember coming here, so how could they pay for a surgery they didn't remember having? John pushed the thought out of his head.

"What you need to do is go home and gather anything and everything that reminds you of Sherlock Holmes." Dr Mierzwiak says. "I mean anything. If you look at it and even a slight thought of Sherlock comes to mind, then you bring it here. We will use those items to set up a kind of map in your brain."

"A map in my brain?" John says. Howard nods.

"I can better explain it tomorrow. So gather all those items and bring them here tomorrow at 4, and we'll begin the process." He says.

"Okay," John nods.

:::

He had moved out of 221b two months before, and yet he is surprised at how much of his things seemed to remind him of Sherlock.

He grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and began to gather everything.

The newspaper clippings of their solved cases. Countless scarves and jumpers. A few photographs and notes. He deleted all of their texts on his phone and it took quite a while to delete the blog posts detailing their adventures over the last two years. He didn't read them. He was glad to be rid of it all.

By the time John was done, there were two garbage bags next to the door and the apartment looked kind of empty. The way it had looked before Sherlock barged into his life. John surveyed it with a satisfied expression.

'_Good_,' He thought. '_As it should be_.'


	3. Chapter 3

"Alrighty, John," Dr Mierzwiak said, walking into the room. "Let's get started, shall we?"

John was currently sitting in a very strange chair. It was almost like a barber's chair, but there was a large mechanical device that he rested his head into. The room was a bit on the small side, but very clean.

"You're not going to erase my memory here, are you?" John asked. Dr Mierzwiak chuckled.

"Of course not. There will be a team coming to your home tonight. They'll perform the procedure while you sleep. This will just set up a map for them." He explained.

"You mentioned that yesterday. A map in my brain?" John asked. Howard nodded.

"Think of your brain as a metaphorical highway. Each exit points leads to different memories. Using your items, we can see what parts of your brain react emotionally and we can target those areas to erase the memories of Sherlock." Dr Mierzwiak said. "This is to prevent us from erasing memories that don't involve Sherlock, like from your childhood or your job."

"Has that happened before?" John asked, a bit concerned. He didn't want to lose anything important. What if he woke up and didn't remember how to use a gun or how money worked?

"Very rarely, and only with new technicians." Howard said, unbothered. "Nothing crucial was lost."

There was a short knock on the door and a man in his late-twenties peered in. He had long brown hair and thick glasses.

"Oh, come in." Dr Mierzwiak said. "John, this is Stank Fink, one of our most skilled technicians. He'll be performing your erasure tonight."

"Hi," Stan said. John nodded back, giving the man a once over. Seemed harmless.

"In fact, he will be helping me set up the map for you." Dr Mierzwiak said. Stan pulled up a stool, and opened the garbage bag, which had been next to the odd chair John was in. Dr Mierzwiak pulled out a tray that was attached to the chair, leading John to believe that it had once been a dentist's chair that had been modified.

"Okay, Dr Watson." Stan said. "What we are going to do is I am going to lay out each item, one at a time, and you are going to think about how the item effects you emotionally."

Stan grabbed a blue marker and stood up, marking a dot on each side of John's temple. He sat back down and began rifling through the bag again.

"It'll be best if you don't talk about the item out loud." Howard said. "Just focus on how the item makes you feel."

"Okay," John said. He was a bit nervous. He had deliberately avoided thinking about the items when he grabbed them and shoved them in the bag. He didn't want to think about Sherlock any more than he had to. He could see why this was important, but it was just going to be frustrating and painful for him. He wished he could just skip to forgetting about it all.

He tried to look on the bright side. By tomorrow morning, he wouldn't remember any of this.

Stan pulled out the first item and laid it on the tray. It was a gold Chinese lucky cat with a bobbing arm.

:::

Take this with a glass of water. Make sure you are in bed when you take it because it will work quite quickly. Any nausea will pass; so don't try to get out of bed to throw up. Don't worry, Dr Watson. We know what we're doing.

:::

John was sitting on the edge of his bed, a glass of water in one hand and the tiny white pill in the palm of his other. He briefly contemplated it. He could back out right now, if he wanted to. This was his last chance to do so. He could go on and remember what Sherlock did to him and try to find _some_ way to be okay with it. But he remembered the irritated expression on Sherlock's face at the crime scene the day before.

He swallowed the pill with a long drink of water. He set the glass down on the nightstand with a loud thud. For a brief moment, he didn't feel different. Then he turned his head slightly to the side and the room positively lurched. The contents of his stomach stirred dangerously. God it was even worse than the worst hangover he's ever had. He briefly thought about sticking his finger down his throat to gag himself and get the medication out.

Then he was staring at the ceiling and wondering how that happened. He had fallen back onto his bed without realizing it. He quickly turned and put his head on the pillow, fighting back the urge to retch. The room was still spinning wildly. He lifted the covers and wrapped himself in them. John was really worried he was going to puke. Maybe he should go to the bathroom? No, Dr Mierzwiak said it would pass. Why hadn't it passed yet? Why hadn't it passed?

Was this worth it?

:::

"Alrighty, John." Dr. Mierzwiak said, walking into the room. "Let's get started, shall we?"

John flinched. He must have been daydreaming. That was it. He looked up at the doctor, who was pulling up a chair and looking over some files. He looked around the room.

"You're not going to erase my memory here, are you?"

It was John's voice, but John hadn't said it. He quickly leaned forward, looking around. What was going on? Dr Mierzwiak chuckled.

"Of c-c-c-c-course not," He said, but his voice was skipping like a record. John was incredibly alarmed. What the hell was going on?

He stood up, expecting the doctor to look up and ask what was wrong. He didn't. He kept looking toward the chair and talking. John snapped his fingers in front of Howard's face.

"Hey!" He said loudly, but Dr Mierzwiak continued talking, completely oblivious.

"Has that happened before?" John's voice said again, but like before, this wasn't John talking. It was coming from the direction of the chair. John quickly looked behind him and saw himself sitting in the chair, looking at Dr Mierzwiak with a concerned expression.

But John was standing.

Yet he was sitting right there!

Then it occurred to John. _He was getting his memory erased right now_. All of this was happening in his head! He didn't know whether to feel relieved or panicked. He didn't realize that he would have to _watch_ his memory get erased! He just thought he'd fall into a dreamless sleep and wake up none the wiser. No one had warned him of this!

John looked around, wondering if he could get the doctors attention. But this was all in his head; it wasn't like he could actually talk to him! It was starting to make his head hurt. But wait, he was already inside his head. How could it hurt? Come on, John, focus!

It was surreal to watch himself (though it wasn't really himself, was it?) have a conversation with someone else. He wondered if he would be watching his memories like a bystander. That would be really strange.

But wait, how could that even be possible? He shouldn't be able to remember what he looked like from an outsider's perspective. He hadn't experienced the memories that way.

Suddenly he was sitting back in the chair, looking at Dr Mierzwiak. He started, nearly jumping out of his skin. It was really unexpected. 'He' was talking, but his voice had a warped effect.

Stan was walking into the room, introducing himself and pulling up a stool. He explained the procedure.

"Okay," John said aloud, and this time his voice didn't have a warped effect. Would it sound normal if he repeated what he had said during those memories? He would have to test it out further. Stan grabbed the blue marker and when he drew the dots on John's temple, it felt like it was actually happening.

He thought about how it was like a dream. All the sensations felt real, but it was only because his brain expected them to feel real. He looked down and pinched his arm. He didn't feel anything, but then again, he had a high tolerance for pain. John looked around quickly, wanting to test his theory. He leaned forward, grabbed a pen and drove it into his thigh.

The pain felt real, making it even more shocking because he hadn't expected it to. He shouted out, his mind thinking, "No! No! Make it stop!" and then the pain did stop. He looked back down, where he had stabbed the pen into his thigh, and saw his clenched fist was empty. The pen was on the desk where it was originally.

A coping mechanism? He wondered. Perhaps it was like a dream, and since he was aware of it, he could still have some control of it.

"Hey," He said to Stan, wanting him to have some kind of reaction. Stan was still oblivious, rooting through the garbage bag. Then he was putting the lucky cat on the tray and suddenly John felt his stomach lurch. It was like jumping in an elevator and the colors in the room started to blend together and draw out and then it all snapped and changed in an instant.

:::

This is the last time I saw you.

:::

He was walking toward the crime scene, where Sherlock was leaned over a body. John stopped, looking around. It was the day before. He was back in the residential area and the crime scene where he found out that Sherlock had erased him. Just seeing Sherlock made him mad. Look at him. So oblivious. Ignorant. That damn bastard!

The Detective Inspector and Sergeant Donovan were stopping him. He remembered this conversation word for word, because he thought of it as one of the worst memories of his life. He said his part like a script, though with plenty of venom in his voice. His voice wasn't warped. He lifted the tape and walked toward Sherlock quickly.

"You bastard!" He shouted at Sherlock, who was also oblivious to John's shouting. The squad car in the background got a sudden dent in it, and John peered at it closely. He shook his head and turned back to Sherlock. "How could you do it? Why did you erase me? You are a selfish prick!"

There was a crunching noise and John whirled and saw the two police cars crumple like they had been in a head on collision. The people around were clueless to what was going on. John could feel the anger coursing through his veins, and he didn't care that the cars were getting crushed. He didn't remember it happening, but it didn't matter! He turned back to Sherlock.

"You only care about yourself! I can't believe you did this!" He shouted in Sherlock's face. Sherlock finally looked up, with an irritated expression. It shocked John silent. He was kind of expecting Sherlock to taunt him about how he couldn't believe John had lost control and was making a scene.

Which was stupid, because what Sherlock actually said was, "If you want me to consult a private case, then e-mail me. Don't bother me when I'm working."

The anger welled up in John. It was just a memory. It wasn't like Sherlock could actually hear him! Before he knew what he was doing, John reached his hand back and then launched forward, punching Sherlock across the face.

What surprised him even more was that it actually happened. Sherlock was suddenly on his knees, cupping his chin.

"Ow!" He said, looking up at John with a disgusted expression. There was a movement in John's peripheral vision, and he looked away to watch as Sally and Greg and countless others suddenly collapsed. Not only was an invisible force smashing the cars, but also the houses and the trees and even the mailboxes were crumbling, as if an invisible hand was slapping everything to the ground. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and John quickly turned to look at Sherlock, who was still staring at him and rubbing his jaw.

"This is all your fault!" John shouted. "This is-"

But the ground was opening up and swallowing John and everything else into it.

:::

John was walking into 221b. He was gathering his things. Sherlock was ignoring him; he sat on the couch, playing his violin. John glared as he made each round up and down the stairs. Not once did Sherlock offer to help.

Every time John walked past Sherlock, he muttered insults. They ranged from the fairly basic ("Asshole." "Fucking prick") to the more creative ("Spawn of an inbred cow!" "Satan's illegitimate bastard child!"). Not once did Sherlock get up or pay any attention to John, just like it had happened last time.

John slammed the door especially hard on his way out, muttering, "Good riddance."

:::

This is where I left you.

:::

It was like John had walked through a curtain. One minute he was carrying the last box to Harry's car, and the next he was walking beside Sherlock. The tall man looked tense and emotionally strained. John felt a faint flicker of surprise, because he hadn't remembered Sherlock looking like this during this memory. He shook his head and looked away. He wasn't going to feel sorry for him. He did this first! He gave up on John!

They were at a crime scene. Where else, of course? It wasn't like Sherlock ever took John anywhere besides crime scenes and restaurants. John frowned, glaring up at Sherlock.

No, Sherlock never took John anywhere. Some fucking boyfriend he was.

"Maybe if you took me to the movies once in a while, I wouldn't have done this." John muttered, but, of course, Sherlock didn't hear him.

The crime scene was on the roof of a skyscraper. A man was sitting in a chair, his shirt unbuttoned, and he had seemingly sliced into his torso with a katana. How melodramatic. John didn't give a damn. He already knew what had happened.

"Suicide?" John's warped voice asked. It grated his nerves and annoyed John and he figured he should stick to the 'script', so to speak.

"No." Sherlock said shortly, but he didn't bother to explain why. He didn't want to talk to John. Whatever. John didn't want to talk to him, either. God, why couldn't this be over already?

He looked around, watching everyone else. He noticed Sally darting her eyes between the two of them, as if she were expecting a fight to break out any minute. God, it must be terrible to be right.

"He'd need quite a reach to be able to cut himself with that sword." John said, though his tone was bored. Quite different from the concerned tone he had when all this actually happened. Sherlock sighed.

"John, just, please don't talk. I'm trying to think." He said. John had remembered this happening, but he just didn't remember the exact tone of Sherlock's voice. He sounded like he thought John was an idiot and interrupting his thought process. Like a mother telling her obnoxious child to just be quiet for five minutes. Actually, Sherlock was talking to him the same way he talked to Anderson.

"No!" John said, fury in his voice. Sherlock glanced at John and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Be reasonable, John. Don't make a scene." He said softly.

"Quit telling me what to do, Sherlock!" John said loudly. He was feeling both the fury from the memory and the real fury at Sherlock. This, right here, was why he was getting erased. God, he was so bossy! He wasn't John's father; he couldn't tell John what to do! He wasn't Sherlock's puppet. Couldn't he just respect John for five damn minutes?

"John." Sherlock said, his voice deadly. It made John even angrier.

"No!" John shouted. "You boss me around all the time! You treat me like a child! I'm sick of it! You always need to be in control and it is so frustrating!"

"Enough, John!" Sherlock said loudly, quickly glancing around at the officers.

"Don't tell me what to do!" John shouted and Sherlock grabbed John's elbow, but John ripped away from him. Suddenly, Lestraude was between the two of them.

"Easy, you guys." He said, trying to cool both of them down, though he was giving that look mostly to Sherlock.

"If that is how you feel, then why don't you just leave?" Sherlock hissed, his voice cruel.

"Fine. I'll move out in the morning. I can see you don't want me around anymore." John said.

"Fine!" Sherlock spat and it was so aggravating. In every single fight, Sherlock always had to have the last word. John hated it and he hated him. Sherlock glared fiercely at John before turning to Lestraude. "It was the man's boss. I don't even know why you brought me out here. So elementary it was pathetic, even for you."

Then Sherlock was walking quickly away from them, toward the stair well. John ran after him, but by the time he was there, Sherlock had already raced down two flights of stairs.

"Sherlock! Come back here!" John leaned over the banister to glare at the detective running away from the crime scene. "I'm erasing you!" John bellowed. "And I'm happy about it!"

The effect was almost instantaneous. The building crumbled with John inside of it and the pain of the walls closing in on him felt very, very real and he felt his legs break and blood in his throat. He quickly reminded himself it wasn't really happening. It was just a dream, it was just a memory, and then he blinked and found himself somewhere else again.

:::

"Do you want children, Sherlock?" They were sitting on the couch with boxes of Chinese laid out on the coffee table. John had his legs tangled in Sherlock's. He remembers this. Things had been…tense between them. They fought more than usual these days. It was two days before the break up.

Sherlock grunted, eating another bite of noodles.

"No?" John asked.

"Never understood the point." Sherlock said, his tone bored.

"What, of having someone else to love? Someone to raise and care for?" John asked. He wanted a kid. He still wants a kid. He wanted to have a baby of his own; something to hold and cuddle and call his own.

"What's the difference between that and a pet?" Sherlock asked darkly.

"You don't get it." John said, turning back to his Chinese.

"Why would you want a child? They are disgusting things. Constantly begging for your attention and they never leave you alone. Always wanting and never say thank you. They take everything for granted." Sherlock said.

"Just like you do." John muttered. Sherlock paused in raising another bite of food to his lips. A moment of silence.

"What was that, John?" Sherlock's voice was venomous. John shook his head. He was tired and hungry and didn't feel like arguing with Sherlock again.

"Nothing. Forget it." He said. Sherlock pulled his legs out from under John, curling up and turning away from John. He scowled into his food. John ran out of patience, slamming his food onto the coffee table and standing up.

"Fine, go ahead and sulk. I'm going to take a shower." John sighed, standing up.

"I'm not having a child." Sherlock said loudly.

"Never said you were." John said, continuing to walk toward the doorway.

"Good. Just so you understand that." He heard Sherlock mumble. John wants to turn around and shout himself hoarse again, but he doesn't want to feel the building fall on top of him again. He keeps walking.

:::

Two nights earlier. John is lying on the couch, asleep, and then he feels a slicing in the palm of his hand. He shouts out, flinging a fist out but Sherlock deflects it with ease. He is looking at John's cut palm with a look of polite interest.

"What the hell are you doing?" John shouts.

"Testing how fast the blood flows if one is unconscious." Sherlock says this like it is perfectly normal to slice open your boyfriend's palm while he lies on the couch.

"And you had to do it on me?" John asks, cupping his bleeding palm. Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes, but only because John could see that he is resisting the urge to.

"Well, I certainly couldn't test it on myself, could I?" He asks, and John is pushing Sherlock aside, going to the kitchen.

"Un-fucking-believable." John mutters, running his hand under the cold water. Luckily, the cut wasn't too deep. After a moment he remembers he is dreaming, and this memory is getting erased as he experiences it.

_He smirks as he wraps up his hand._


End file.
